Pas de Deux
by Konstantya
Summary: In which Russia uses Austria, Austria uses Russia, Belarus goes to the ballet, and a crack pairing happens. AustriaxBelarus.


General Note: I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So if the formatting is weird, please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

Obligatory (but ultimately pointless) CYA: I don't own it.

(Time period: 1820-ish.)

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**Pas de Deux  
**

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"And…I'm to take you to the ballet?"

It was a bit of a redundant question. Belarus had, herself, just informed him of such. Still, standing in the grand parlor of the Russian Empire's house, Austria wanted to get his facts straight. Perhaps he had misheard.

"Brother was supposed to, but he had business come up." Belarus did nothing to disguise the disdain in her voice, as if she suspected it was merely an excuse on Russia's part. "He suggested I go with _you,_ instead." She actually gave him a once-over with her eyes at that, and was visibly not impressed with what she saw.

Austria arched an eyebrow. He was hardly the most massive or muscular of nations, admittedly—height was the only real physical advantage he could claim, and even then, Belarus didn't stand much shorter. But, to his credit, he'd been raised in the courts. Conversational attacks were nothing new to him. Dialogue between powerful parties could often be analogous to tightrope walking: one had to be steady, graceful, and confident—but never rash. Austria wasn't being too arrogant in admitting that he was a master of the skill.

Besides, assuming that Russia actually _had_ weaseled his way out of the engagement (not that Austria could blame him all that much—honestly, their family dynamics could rival England's), this could be used to his advantage. Russia would be indebted to him, after all. And Austria would be a fool not to see what political leverage it could afford him in the future. All he had to do was enjoy a ballet and avoid getting knifed. Not exactly his choice idea for a night out on the town, but he'd endured worse situations.

"Well," Austria said mildly, "it does seem a shame to miss such a performance because of an unfortunate change in your brother's schedule."

Belarus said nothing, her eyes flicking towards him condescendingly.

"And the Bolshoi Kamenny Theatre was just recently restored, was it not?"

"…Last year," she answered.

"I hear it's quite the sight to behold," Austria said, casually adjusting his glove. "I imagine your attending, even without his presence, would make your brother very happy." It was something of both an enticement and a challenge. Austria wasn't one for gambling, but he sincerely hoped this one particular game would play out in his favor.

Belarus paused, seemingly at odds with herself. She stared at Austria for an excruciatingly long moment, and just when he suspected he was about to lose some blood, she finally deigned to speak.

"I will dress," she said, cold and imperious. "You will meet me in the foyer, and we will take the carriage."

Austria put a hand to his chest and briskly half-bowed, deferent and humoring her all at once.

-  
-o-  
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It was precisely seven o'clock when Belarus came down. Austria was waiting, top hat in hand, overcoat on his arm. Upon seeing she was fully dressed, cloak and all, he set his hat down on a hall table and went about donning his own outdoor wear.

It was only upon wrapping his scarf about his neck that Belarus stopped and paid him any attention at all. "Why the scarf?" she demanded, looking at him with an expression that was somehow akin to surprise.

Austria took the arguably rude question in easy stride. "Because it's St. Petersburg, in winter."

She stared suspiciously for another moment, and then, suddenly and dismissively, turned her back on him and swept out the doors. Austria fixed his hat on his head, and, mildly amused by her haughtiness, followed.

He caught up with her just as she was about to step up into the carriage. Wordlessly, he offered his hand. Belarus blinked and looked as if she wanted to take offense at his presumptuousness, but the only impression Austria projected was one of gentlemanly politeness. Still, she regarded his hand, covered in an impeccable ivory glove as it was, much the way a cat regarded food it didn't deem acceptable, and it was only with great skepticism that she took it. Austria bolstered her up, climbed in after, motioned to the driver, and they were off.

-  
-o-  
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Belarus was, without a doubt, a beauty. Dangerous and perversely obsessed with her brother, yes—but beautiful.

She wore an icy blue gown, with the high waist and capped sleeves that were so popular these days. Her pale blonde hair was curled and looped and pinned up on her head, and she sat, feet tucked close, gloved hands in her lap, entirely focused on the performance. Like a statue, a work of art. Austria didn't think he'd seen her fidget or idly scratch her neck even once. For all her frightening, stalker-like tendencies, Belarus was, quite possibly, the quintessential refined lady. He would give her that. Even her day clothes were impeccable. And if there was one thing Austria did, it was appreciate the finer things in life. More than once he'd found his gaze drifting from the stage over to her.

He had to wonder, though—perhaps only out of a desire for self-preservation—where she was keeping those knives she was so uncommonly fond of. Fashion had stream-lined with the Neo-Classical movement; no longer did dresses require yards and yards of fabric. It was a refreshing change, to be sure, but severely impeded the prospect of hiding things in one's ruffles. And Austria doubted Belarus would have left them in her cloak. They were weapons, after all. It only made sense to keep them on person.

Perhaps in a garter around the tops of her stockings, then. Surely there was room for a knife or two—she had such long legs, after all…

Austria felt himself flush slightly, and resisted the urge to loosen the stock at his neck. Bad move, _Österreich._ Admiring a beautiful woman was one thing; lusting after _Russia__'s little sister_ an entirely different thing altogether. As if he didn't have enough problems already, running an empire.

Well. If he was going to refrain from letting his eyes roam over Belarus, he surely wasn't going to think about work in lieu of that action—especially not on his leisure time. A ballet, in any event, was to be enjoyed, no matter if his companion had a thing for blades and an inappropriate fixation on her brother or not. And so it was with renewed interest and resolution that Austria turned his attention back to the stage.

-  
-o-  
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"Brother dearly loves the ballet," Belarus admitted during intermission.

Austria looked over, caught off guard by her instigation of conversation. "Oh?"

Belarus nodded. She seemed to be indifferently observing the other attendees, down below. "He likes to study it in his spare time. Sometimes the Imperial Ballet will even invite him to practice with them."

Austria blinked. Well, he supposed it wasn't entirely surprising that Russia was fond of the dance. It was arguably as celebrated among the Russian people as it was among the French. But where it was easy to picture suave, lithe France leaping and twirling, one had to exercise a bit more imagination to see large, hulking Russia performing those very same moves.

"Really," he remarked.

"He is really quite talented," Belarus said, rather tartly, finally turning to regard her companion for the evening. It was almost as if she was affronted by the idea that he might not believe her—and in turn would think less than the world of her brother. "He once had a chance to have a lesson with Didelot, you know."

Charles-Louis Didelot, the famous French dancer and choreographer. Well-known and respected throughout Europe. Austria raised his eyebrows in something of an impressed apology. "Well then he _must_ be quite the dancer, for Didelot to see him."

At that, Belarus dismissively flicked her head forward again. "He _didn't_ see him," she corrected curtly. "Brother turned down the opportunity. Said he was too nervous."

_That_ sounded a bit more like Russia. He did well enough, heading an empire, but he'd never really settled into his palaces and courts the way Austria had. And Didelot, while not an aristocrat, moved primarily within aristocratic circles. Austria wasn't surprised Russia found such a renowned man a little intimidating.

_"I_ surely would not have turned it down," Belarus added sourly. Other women would have pouted, but not her—she fairly _glowered_. Austria might have been unnerved were he not so curious.

"You dance?" he asked.

The look she gave him could have frozen the Sahara. "Yes," she said. "Brother enjoys it, so of course I would study it."

Austria inclined his head. "Of course," he said, and left it at that.

-  
-o-  
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"It appears we got out a little early," Austria said, checking his pocket watch. He peered at the street traffic again. "And it seems your driver has yet to return from wherever he went off to. I suggest we wait indoors."

"I would rather walk in the meantime," Belarus boldly declared, putting the hood of her cloak up in preparation.

Austria looked at the light snow that was currently falling and especially at the way his breath steamed in the frigid St. Petersburg air, and repressed a displeased sigh. Well, at least the evening was almost over. With any luck, he wouldn't have to freeze for very long.

"Alright," he said sportingly, adjusting his hat, "where shall we walk?"

"Around the theater," she said, and with that announcement, set off. With a bracing breath, Austria followed.

Despite her demeanor, Belarus walked at quite a leisurely pace. Austria fell in step beside her, and they eventually turned off the main street into the neighboring alley. With the decrease in traffic also came a decrease in noise, and the silence between them grew more apparent.

"What did you think of the performance?" Austria asked after a few moments. He figured he should at least _try_ to engage in polite conversation.

Belarus didn't answer right away, and when she did, it was brief. "The principle's _fouettés_ were off-tempo during her solo, and she consequently had to rush her _chassés."_

To be fair, the criticism wasn't unfounded. It was something Austria himself had observed—though he found Belarus's assessment a bit blunt and uncharitable. The rest of the performance had been on the exceptional side, and he'd noticed that it had very much captured her attention, however reluctant she might be to admit to it.

"Well," he said diplomatically, "every performer has their off days."

"Brother says you do not," Belarus retorted, and Austria almost stopped in surprise at the unintended compliment. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and mildly turned his head toward her.

"He speaks to you about me?"

Belarus kept her gaze forward. "He greatly admires your musicians and has spoken highly of your own performances. I once tried learning the piano myself, for him," she admitted. Then her voice turned cold and she added, "But the damnable instrument would not cooperate and I had no choice but to dispose of it."

_That poor piano,_ Austria lamented. He was quite sure Belarus's method of 'disposing' had little to do with hiring movers and more to do with reducing it to splinters. He almost wanted to have a moment of silence for the instrument.

"Ah," he said, and cleared his throat. "But you said earlier that you took up ballet?"

"Yes." She paused in her stride. "Would you care to see?"

Austria blinked at the sudden, uncharacteristic question. Instead of asking what had prompted it, he counted his blessings, buried his curiosity, said, "I would be honored," and realized it was true.

It was with a degree of conceit that Belarus removed the hood from her head. In the snow-dusted theater alley, she took position, and began.

It was a simple little routine—some footwork in place, a delicate jump or two—but the carriage of her arms was graceful, and her feet pointed in all the right directions. She went into a couple of turns from there, her spotting good and sharp, and ended in an _arabesque,_ leg pointed straight behind, her opposite arm extended up and out, her body in one long line. She held the pose for a moment, and then returned to a normal stance.

Austria raised his eyebrows. The skill required for such movements was not great, granted, but it couldn't be denied that she had performed them elegantly—in winter garb, no less. "That's really quite impressive. However…" he said, wandering closer, boot heels clicking against cobblestone, "I couldn't help but notice…" He stopped. Thoughtfully put his hand to his chin. "Do your _arabesque_ again."

Belarus blinked at the order, and, oddly enough, looked more confused than offended. A little reticently, she posed. "Ah! There," Austria said. "You cock your hip out."

Belarus _glared_. To say she didn't take well to criticism was quite the understatement—the hand that was stretched behind her dropped to her thigh and began inching her skirt up. Weapon location confirmed, thought Austria, who, now that it was required, wasted no time in pulling his ace.

"Do you want to impress Russia or not?" he demanded dryly.

Belarus's hand froze. The death glare continued—possibly even grew more severe_,_ if that was at all possible—but, almost defiantly, she resumed the pose. Austria repressed a self-satisfied smile and reassessed her positioning.

"There. Now. Square your hips forward. No, now you're just doing it on the other side. No, _square_—" Austria huffed, putting exasperated fingers to his forehead.

He could have just demonstrated it. Could have just pointed his foot out behind him and shown her the proper form. He hardly found his knowledge of the dance embarrassing. Performing such a basic pose would have been no problem at all. So perhaps it was impatience. Or perhaps he suspected she was purposefully nettling him by feigning ignorance. Perhaps he was simply too used to being an empire, too used to the power it afforded, too used to doing and getting what he wanted. The reasons were ambiguous; the only thing that was certain was what resulted from them:

"Like _this,"_ Austria said, and forcibly pulled her hips into the correct position.

Belarus's breath caught, and her eyes flashed up to his. It seemed like she was trying to glare daggers at him again, but her eyes were a bit too wide and her lips a bit too parted to make it very effective this time around. A part of Austria _knew_ what he was doing was insane—because this was _Belarus_—but another, equal part of him couldn't be bothered. Because the fact of the matter was, this _was_ Belarus—and for everything else she might have been, she was also beautiful, and elegant, and sophisticated, and Austria would have been lying if he said he didn't want her for those reasons alone.

Dully, he was aware of her hand reaching up to his chest, delicately searching, until she found his scarf, and downright seductively wrapped her fingers around it.

And then yanked, pulling his head down.

_"Hrk!"_ Austria uttered, the scarf tightening uncomfortably about his neck, his top hat falling to the ground. He quickly dropped his hands from her, but Belarus didn't follow suit. Instead, her other hand reached up, gripping the collar of his overcoat. With her hold on him secure, she unwrapped the scarf and threw it unceremoniously behind her. Austria blinked, and schooled his features into what he hoped was an unreadable expression. As it was, he wasn't sure if he should be terrified or turned on. Maybe he was feeling a bit of both.

Belarus sneered and jerked him closer. Her dark eyes flicked uncertainly over his face. "You're nothing like him," she muttered, more to herself than to him. His nose was no more than a few, scant centimeters away from hers. "Scrawny…prissy… Nothing at all like him." Her hand tugged harder. "So why…?"

She never finished the question, instead opting to pull his mouth down to hers. She was forceful and sharp, and rather than complain or make some move to get away, Austria went along with it. Kissing Belarus was rather akin to dancing on the edge of a cliff: dangerous and exhilarating, where even one wrong move could result in disaster. So he kept his arms at his sides and simply kissed her back—carefully and coaxingly, until her lips softened, and she stopped using her teeth, and her pace slowed, and her mouth opened fully. Until she wasn't pulling on his collar, so much as hanging from it.

Eventually, the momentum wound down, and their mouths parted. Their breaths were heavy, forming puffs of steam in the icy air, and her gaze flicked from his lips up to his eyes.

"There's more to you than your brother, you know," Austria murmured, and something caught in her eyes at that—but before he could decipher what it was, the familiar sounds of a carriage were heard. Belarus abruptly let go of him, like he was some hot coal, and, without a word, swept around the corner.

After a moment, Austria got a hold of his faculties. He adjusted his collar, retrieved his hat and scarf from the ground, shook the snow from them, and followed.

-  
-o-  
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"So…" Russia asked, the next day, "it went well, yes?"

Austria rubbed at his spectacles with his handkerchief. He held them up to the window light, deemed them acceptable, and replaced them on the bridge of his nose. "She expressed some disappointment with the lead ballerina's performance, but overall seemed quite enraptured by the production."

Russia breathed a sigh of relief. Austria almost smiled. It was really quite amusing to see such a large nation—frightening in his own right—to be so terrified of his little sister.

"How was business?" he inquired. It was only polite to ask, after all.

"Business?" Russia echoed. Was that nervousness in his voice?

Austria adjusted his spectacles and clarified. "Yes, the business that kept you from attending yourself last night."

"Oh. Yes. Yes!" Russia laughed. "You know how it is—last minute meetings. You know, I really must thank you again for taking Bela in my place. It was very kind of you."

Austria smiled, perhaps a bit slyly. "It was no trouble. Quite a pleasant experience on the whole, I must say."

Russia did his best to not look skeptical. It almost worked. "Really," he said, a bit flatly.

Thoughtfully, Austria tilted his head. "She's really a rather…"—okay, _nice_ wasn't the correct word—"fascinating girl, when it comes down to it."

Russia laughed—really, almost tittered—uneasily. "You will have to come see the ballet more often, then. The three of us could go together, yes?"

Austria smiled indulgently. "It would be my pleasure," he said, and could only hope Russia would opt to have 'business' on those nights as well.

.

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* * *

Historical notes:

-Austria and Russia actually had great relations up until the 1850s, so one of them paying the other a visit really isn't as strange as it might seem. (History, you save my ass every time!)

-It's possible that the ballet terms I used hadn't actually been invented as of 1820, but it was hard to find information on when exact movements originated. (This is to say, I'm sorry for any anachronisms in that respect, if you happened to notice and/or care.)

A/N: I hate writing detailed kisses. orz. (And oh, Austria. You can be such a manipulative, covert!pervert sometimes. XD)

That aside, I will be completely honest and say that this whole fic was inspired by a picture from a completely different fandom. I somehow ran across a picture from what is apparently the second season of _Kuroshitsuji,_ and went, "Hey, that looks like Austria. And kind of like Belarus. Man, what a crack pairing _that_ would make." And then the idea wouldn't leave me alone. So I had to make it work. D:


End file.
